


Within Each Colour, We Rest

by misha_collins_butt



Series: And the Stars Will Fade and the Moon Will Fall but Please Stay With Me Tonight [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Human!Castiel - Freeform, M/M, Old Fic, Snuggling, profound!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 07:51:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20206273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misha_collins_butt/pseuds/misha_collins_butt
Summary: This is an extended version of my drabble in chapter 23 (Whisper) of my ABC Destiel Drabbles. Because I'm in a mood and I need those ~soft~ feels right now.





	Within Each Colour, We Rest

Cas can't really explain why he likes sneaking into Dean's room at night and curling up under his willing arms.

Maybe it's because when he cracks the door open, Dean stirs and looks up at him with sleep heavy eyes and smiles softly and opens his arms, encouraging Cas to pad in and slip under the covers with him.

Maybe it's because of the seemingly endless regeneration of heat that Dean radiates in waves, especially on cold nights when Cas can't get warm enough by himself, his body still adjusting to being a human.

Or maybe it's because of the things Dean whispers to him in the dead of the dark, as the stars hang themselves up like little crystal freckles in the sky to match the ones on Dean's cheeks and the moon dangles precariously over the tree lines, ethereal sodium in the reflection of the sun.

And the world keeps spinning, and the grass keeps swaying, and the birds keep sleeping, and the flowers keep rustling, and Dean pulls him close and rests his head on Cas's and whispers the most soothing nothings he can think of, and Cas isn't sure, but he thinks this is what they call love.

Because Dean just holds him there, lips against his ear and breathes out things like '_think about how gorgeous it would be in here if I could get a skylight. The sun in the late morning and the moon right now. It'd be almost half as beautiful as you_' and '_you're always so cold but that's okay because that means I get to hold you like this_' and '_your eyes remind me of the galaxy_'.

And tonight, though Cas is bundled up in Deans effervescent, unyielding warmth, he can't find it in him to sleep.

Because tonight, Dean, as he was about to slide into his own sleep, whispered something to Cas that's never even crossed his mind. Something that's never even touched the surface of his brain and now it's out there and Dean was nearly asleep and nobody just lies when they're that out of it.

It was something Cas can't get out of his head and he wonders if Dean will remember it in the morning and he hopes the hunter does.

Because the words that slipped from Dean Winchester's lips were 'I love you'.

Cas never wants to sleep in his own bed again.

\--

Dean is in love with nights like this, when he wakes to the soft scrape of Cas dragging his feet across the wood panelling of the floor and then he hears the faint creak of the rusty hinges of his bedroom door and he smiles to himself because he knows Cas has trouble sleeping and the fact that he's comfortable enough to come straight to Dean is one of the most satisfying things in the world for whatever reason. 

Probably because all he has to do is lift his arm and the blanket, and Cas crawls up into the bed and wriggles in, curling himself up right against Dean's chest, and Dean gets to pull him impossibly closer, and they get to exchange warmth and tangle their legs together and smile into each other's skin.

And Dean gets to bury his nose in Cas' soft neck and place gentle kisses behind his ear, and press his lips into Cas' mop of chocolate curls and then he gets to tilt his head forward and rest it against Cas' head.

And he gets to whisper the things he can only utter in the moonlight, the only audience the stars floating in the Tyrian purple bowl of the night, the things he does not dare say to the Sun, does not dare let fall from his clumsy lips in the presence of such a ferocious King, and its accusing grass meadow of peasants. No, not even to the storm clouds that always seem to threaten only the very edges of the horizon, peeking up from their perches on twisted branches of other parts of the tremendous globe, knowing that if they dare appear at the wrong time, they will be stomped out by the fire in the Ruler of Day.

But, to Dean's fortune, ever to the rescue comes the Knight of the Night, the white cratered orb that bobs among the tiny pin pricks of light and that is his saviour, his permission to whisper his secrets of old and of ancient and of new, to let ginger words and sweet nonsense drift haphazardly through his lax lips and blanket themselves across his lover's beautiful face.

He is inconceivably grateful to the night; it is his home and his freedom, to speak what he wishes and to love who he wants, to dream his dreams of impossible domesticity and to let his mind wander to the way Castiel's eyes mimick the unfathomable, brightly coloured, gaseous galaxies that reside so far out into the universe, wander to the way he swears he hears a new species form and an extinct species revive every time Castiel so much as smirks, wander to what it must be like in that funny, mythical-forested, flower-crowned, tendentiously, preposterously profound mind of his, what it must be like to know the oracles and to have deciphered the enigmas of the universe that Dean compares his eyes to.

Yes, he loves these nights, he loves the ability to give more than he takes, always, and the way Cas so willingly climbs in next to him and shares his dreams, and he loves the stars in the sky and the man lying half-awake next to him and he loves Castiel so much. And Dean tells him.

And, though he'd much rather stay up all night, take advantage of what little time he is given to breathe out the unthinkable and completely latent, he's exhausted and Cas is just the right type of in between hot and cold and everything is so perfect already.

And so Dean allows himself to drift off into a land of elves and faerie dust, where he can soar through the blackest depths of the sky and skim his hand across the planets and burst through the gasses of galaxies unknown, where he can plunder the riches of Castiel's undying love and kiss him endlessly, as the world crumbles around them and they are the only two left standing.

Maybe sleep is just as satisfying as the feeling of Cas breathing next to him and the knowledge that he is the first one Cas comes to when he can't sleep.

\--

Sam loves the nights when his hunter-trained ears make his eyes pop open because Cas's footfalls in the hallway aren't always the softest. He loves them because, long ago, before whatever they have now, before the fall and the bunker and any of this, he already knew his brother and his best friend always have been, are, and always will be the single most epic love story between two species who were the epitome of tense, of frustrated, of a fabricated relationship, woven loosely because of the hesitance to get too close, because of the knowledge that they were both tentative and ready to snap and turn at any moment.

Which they did.

But then again, destiny always prevails, and the Winchester Brothers Extraordinaire pull through yet again as Dean's reputation for repairing at the same time as he destroys precedes him. 

The relationship between the humans and the Angels has been rebuilt to some extent by the ever-growing, hilariously scandalous love and affection between Dean and Cas, and if it crumbles again, it will be the fault of no one, and it will be the coldest day in hell, the hottest day in heaven, and the most peaceful day on earth when it happens, because it will not happen.

No, because even after Dean is long dead, millions of years after his body rots to bone beneath hundreds of kilograms of dirt, and eons after Castiel has stopped sobbing and moping about said death, millennia after he finds some old patch of land, with a dozen towering willow trees and intimidatingly tall blades of swaying grass and has built a little nest there, to sit in the caressing sun and breathe in the breeze of his Father's creation - even after all of this, their love will not falter, will not crumble, because it is strong-standing, it is unyielding and obstinate, grasping steadfast to the bloom of the rosebuds in late spring and the shine of a dew drop quivering on the edge of an early morning leaf painted green by the sun and the tiny-toothed, chap-lipped grin of a blonde pigtailed three year old taking pride in her own great artwork.

Their love is evergreen and whiskey-stained, tear-jerking and awe-inspiring, crimson-blood-spattered and raised-voice-memories, unrelenting in the way it stands tall, smirking in a spotlight that's been waiting for them since the first furious dawn of the sun and the first dismal droop of the moon, merciless in the way it blows Sam away, gripping him by the shoulders and shaking him to get his attention as if he can't already see it standing right in front of him, and it is righteous and beautiful and incredible and there is nothing, _nothing_ that can stop it.

And, damn, is he glad they finally fucking figured it out.

**Author's Note:**

> Damn, what is with me and Cas not being able to sleep leading to first kisses? Why am I obsessed with this very specific genre? Wtf?


End file.
